


Ice Melts

by Bellelaide



Category: Men's Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-17
Updated: 2018-10-17
Packaged: 2019-08-03 15:06:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16328327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bellelaide/pseuds/Bellelaide
Summary: John Stones doesn’t like Jordan Pickford. Then, the Colombia game happens, and all that goes to hell





	Ice Melts

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! 
> 
> This is for the person who wrote to me on Tumblr and asked me to write about John falling in love with Jordan same as the nation did after the Colombia game. Thank you for requesting this! 
> 
> This is a different world to the Big Dick Energy one, just a heads up xxx

It was no secret that John Stones didn’t really like Jordan Pickford. 

It wasn’t personal, necessarily. It was that John was loyal to a fault, and that meant he was on team Joe Hart. 

Not only was Hart an English National Team institution, he was a fellow City player and had grown to become a good friend of John’s, taking him for a drink when he’d first gotten the call up to tell him what to expect. He’d done the same for Kyle Walker, too - he was like their big brother. They were both devastated when he wasn’t named for the World Cup squad. It wasn’t fair - Harty had earned a place. He was the best English goal keeper there was. 

John was furious when he heard the news. He’d texted Gareth asking why Joe had been left off the squad, and Gareth hadn’t replied. John, Kyle and Raheem went round to Joe’s house with beer and Russian vodka and got pissed, lamenting that the World Cup would be shit anyway - they weren’t going to win, they’d be lucky to even make it out of the rounds of 16. No one in the country gave a toss about international footie. Joe wasn’t missing out. 

Still, they were sad and deeply disappointed when he wasn’t with them on the day of their departure. John avoided Jordan Pickford because he felt that he was somewhat responsible for the lack of Joe, too - if Jordan wasn’t there, Joe would be. It was simple. 

On the flight to Russia John and Kyle spent half an hour discussing Pickford’s game, commenting that he wasn’t even that good a goalie - he was tall but he wasn’t THAT tall, aggressive but not in a good way. He played for Everton - everyone knew they were an average team; John himself had been unspeakably relieved to have been signed by City when he had. 

“What gets me is why he was so expensive,” Kyle whispered. “Thirty mill? Are they wiping their arses with fifties over in Everton?” 

John snorted. “His pass rate is fucking diabolical. So bad. Gareth’s lost his fucking mind and all.” 

Suddenly from the seat in front of them Vardy popped up, looking at them in disgust. “Having a good bitch there lads?” He said, and John and Kyle fell silent. “Didn’t you cost fifty odd mill John? Haven’t exactly heard rave reviews about you lately.” 

“We won the PL,” John squeaked defensively, and Jamie snorted. 

“You were injured for half of it if were you not?”

John went red and Kyle tutted. “Alright Vardy, what’s your problem?” He said, tapping his knee against John’s. “We’re allowed to have opinions about the other players. We’re not talking loud.” 

“Keep your opinions to yourselves. Last thing we need is a big fall out just before the tournament, alright? It’s hardly Pickford’s fault Harty never got called up.” With that he turned around and sat back down, and Kyle and John said nothing, feeling thoroughly scolded like two naughty school boys. They’d have to be more careful in future, but the sentiment still stood - they didn’t rate Jordan. It should’ve been Joe. 

— 

Stepping off the plane in Russia was bizarre. There was press and Fifa officials everywhere, and there was a definite sense of electric anticipation in the air. They would be heroes or losers here - their lives could be changed. It was an overwhelming thought and John’s head spun with it. He walked through the airport wide eyed, taking it all in, standing close to Kyle at all times. 

The rest of the boys were the same, in quiet awe as they experienced the initial moments of the World Cup. They walked with an air of importance, confidence - England hadn’t done well in a major international tournament for many years, but there was still a pride in wearing the three lions on your chest; in standing side by side with some great players. 

John looked at the faces of his teammates and took in their matching expressions. Maguire and Ruben were grinning and nudging each other as they read the signs dotted around in Russian, Dier and Dele and Kane having a deep discussion about something John had no interest in knowing. Jordan and Jesse were laughing at something, and when John looked at them Jordan caught his eye, raising his eyebrows as if to say “wow.” John looked away like he hadn’t noticed and ignored the twist in his stomach. 

—

Overall they were meshing really well, all of them. Training was going nicely - spirits were high. Vardy kept saying things felt different this time, that it wasn’t like this at other World Cups. Gareth had agreed, but in less words - he didn’t want to jinx it. 

John was having an all round fabulous time. He got along with everyone, players and staff alike - he was always laughing, joking, acting the fool. The whole thing was like a big holiday if you ignored the crushing pressure of the biggest sports tournament in the world. He loved being around people he didn’t get to see very often during normal football times, and thrived off the attention he was constantly bathed in living as part of the squad. That being said, John was stubbornly refusing to get to know Jordan on any level, turning away from him in conversation and begging out of a room if Jordan entered it. He knew he wasn’t being very nice but he just wasn’t interested; just didn’t want to get to know the guy. Kyle was better at acting aloof than John was - he managed to avoid getting to know Jordan without being obvious about it. John wasn’t subtle and people began to notice, Kane pulling him aside just before their first game and asking what was going on. 

“Just not my type of guy. No drama, just don’t wanna be friends,” John had mumbled. Harry was unimpressed. 

“Don’t fuck up the chemistry of the group,” he warned. “Stop being so stand-offish all the time.” 

John had gone and ranted to Kyle about that one for ages, wondering just who Harry Kane thought he was. 

“I know, mate. It’s like he thinks he’s the captain or summit,” Kyle said, and John punched him in the balls. 

— 

They won their first game, and the powers that be asked John if he’d go in the Lion’s Den with Jordan. Jordan was up for it but John had refused, saying that he didn’t feel like press. Everyone had looked at him like he was mad, all wondering if ‘don’t feel like it’ was a valid excuse, but they’d asked Jesse and Marcus instead in the end. 

At dinner later Jesse and Marcus were talking about the segment they’d filmed and Delph had looked over confusedly and said “I thought Pickford and Stones were going on it?” 

There had been an awkward silence, and then Jordan cleared his throat and said “Stonesy thinks he’s too good to do an interview with me.” 

The tension had crackled in the air like cellophane. John looked up from his plate at the eyes focussed on him, and frowned. “No. Not at all. Just didn’t feel like being recorded - “ 

“You’ve got a fucking problem with me, everyone sees it. Probably should own up to that, might make things less awkward.” 

“Hardly.” John snapped, dropping his fork and folding his arms. “Don’t give a fuck about you either way.” 

“You think you’re hot shit because you’re a fucking City player, but we’d all feel like hot shit if we’d been bought by a fuckin Saudi oil baron,” Jordan said, and there was a smattering of choked laughter and shocked gasps. 

“Hey,” Kyle intervened. “That’s enough.” 

“Wind your neck in, Pickford. I don’t care about you. Get over yourself.” 

“I’m sorry Hart couldn’t be here. Not like I asked Gareth not to pick him, is it? He’s my fucking hero too, lads. Lay off, will yous?” 

John and Kyle sat in silence, equally mortified to be dressed down like this in front of the rest of the group. John stared angrily at his plate, his ears burning.

Eventually Kyle nodded beside him and said “Sorry if I’ve made you uncomfortable. Wasn’t my intention.” John said nothing, instead pushing away from the table and walking straight out of the dining room. 

— 

The Panama game happened, and John was alight with the excitement of it. He’d scored twice, fucking scored two England goals in a World Cup, and they’d fucking smashed it as a whole - 6 to 1 they beat the South Americans. It was nothing short of incredible. 

They left the pitch and tore down the tunnel, the air thick with adrenalin and happiness, all of them screaming and whooping and cheering. Kyle was chanting “it’s coming home!” and they couldn’t help but join in, even Gareth laughing and nodding along. John was higher than any of them, unable to keep from leaping around, touching everyone constantly, eyes dancing. 

Everyone was congratulating him fondly, running fingers through his sweaty hair. His phone was lit up and he couldn’t find the serenity to sit there and look at it so he didn’t bother, instead buzzing from person to person and dancing erratically, one sock on and one off, completely gone with it. 

Someone clapped him on the shoulder and he spun around to see Jordan, smiling politely. “Nice one, Stonesy,” he said. “You must be buzzin.” 

John didn’t even hesitate when he pulled Jordan into a hug, too hyper to think twice. “Thank you, mate,” he breathed into Jordan’s neck, and for a split second he noted mentally that even with the sweat of the game on him Jordan smelled really nice - really masculine and musky - but he stopped those thoughts in their tracks before they could take any shape. 

Jordan pulled back and moved away, off to talk to Harry or someone. John spun back round and saw Kyle watching him intently. He shrugged at him, and Kyle came forward, dropping his voice. “I think we should give him a chance,” he said, and John pretended not to hear, moving instead to pull Jesse onto his shoulders. 

— 

 

The more they got into the tournament, the more Jordan proved himself. This irritated John, who was running out of excuses to dislike him. When Jordan was lauded for a particular save John would pull a face and look away, rolling his eyes at Kyle. He texted Joe on occasion, silly messages like “someone without arms could’ve saved that”. Joe always sent hahaha in response but eventually he stopped doing that, and instead said “give him a chance mate”. John resented that because he was only trying to be on Joe’s side, but whatever. The moral high ground was for pussies. 

They’d hang out after games, congregating in the hotel’s common areas, and Jordan was always at the centre of the conversation. He was a loud person, and infuriatingly down to earth - he didn’t seem to think of himself as a professional footballer, a world class athlete. He behaved like a normal lad in his twenties who had been given an amazing opportunity. 

They were moping around after the Belgium game and Sterling was lamenting what the press was going to say, Lingard stressed that he’d lose Instagram followers, when Jordan stood up in the middle of the room and called for their attention. “Are yous all fucking mad?” He began, the place falling silent. John shot a look at Kyle. “It’s only football. Sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t! It’s a fucking game! There’s only pressure if you let there be. I’m not being funny but I’d rather be here, losing to some of the best players in the world right now, than at home plastering walls listening to it on the radio.” 

At first no one said anything, then Harry Kane said “He’s absolutely right. We’re taking it too seriously. We don’t need to be down about this.” 

“Let’s play some fuckin FIFA and cheer up a bit,” Jordan finished, throwing himself down heavily onto his chair and reaching for the TV remote. 

John scoffed and looked across at Kyle, but Kyle wasn’t looking back. He was watching the screen, pointedly not making eye contact. John stood up and left. 

It wasn’t the last time that Jordan would bring the group back down to Earth with a shuddering jolt. He laughed uproariously at Dele when he came down the stairs in a Gucci tracksuit until Dele himself admitted he was dressed like a twat; and when they were discussing their end of World Cup dinner destinations he’d point blank refused to go to a restaurant some were suggesting that cost £60 for a starter. 

Despite himself, John found himself feeling extraordinarily normal in Jordan’s presence; felt himself remembering that he was just a 24 year old lad who’d had a stroke of luck. John felt the pressure they were under dissipate when they were sat around joking about common high school experiences, about Fortnite strategies, about their favourite Tesco aisles. He almost cried about it once back in the room, the way he felt light and easy around Jordan Pickford but had made it so that the feeling gave him nothing but guilt. 

— 

 

Once, John walked into the dining room to find Kyle and Jordan laughing uproariously and he had stared at Kyle with rage, stepping between them and saying “Can I talk to you Kyle?” 

Jordan had stopped laughing and looked at John confusedly. “Y’alright big lad?” He said carefully, and John nodded over his shoulder at him, stalking off with Kyle in tow. 

“Fraternising with the enemy?” He accused him, and Kyle licked his lips and raised his brows. 

“He’s not a bad lad John. I think you’d probably get on.” 

“You’ve changed your tune,” John hissed, unimpressed. 

“Takes a lot of fucking energy to stay so angry all the time, John. We should enjoy our time, know what I mean? Harty doesn’t even care anymore.” 

John didn’t know what to say then, because Kyle was probably right, but he’d come this far - he couldn’t change his mind now. He just couldn’t. 

— 

Then the Colombia game happened. 

In the hours before it, John was lounging around with Kyle, preparing to go over their warmups in a little while. They were scrolling on their phones when John said airily, “I bet if we lose it’s because Pickford lets in loads of goals.” 

Kyle sighed. “You have to drop this.” 

“He let in that one against Belgium.” 

“You’re being ridiculous.” 

“Just saying. It’s not going to be because Harry can’t score or because we let the balls through. It’ll be because he can’t save.” 

“Surely if he has to save it’s because we’ve let one in?” 

“Semantics.” 

“You know what John? If we win this game, I dare you to go to his room and have a conversation with him. You have to stop being so weird about this.” 

“Pfft. If we lose then what do I get?” 

“If we lose and it’s clearly his fault then I’ll stop speaking to him too. Alright?” 

John thought about it. “Fine,” he said absently. It wasn’t binding. It’d be fine. 

— 

The game was tough. The Colombians played dirty and were hungry for it, wanted to win. The England side were equally as desperate but at least played with some decorum, John thought. The match was long and slow and by the end they were on equal footing and it meant just one thing. 

They all looked at each other as the whistle blew; as it became clear they would have to do penalties. Gareth was as white as a sheet, the old curse looming over their heads. John tried to remember that it was just a game, that it didn’t matter really, but he still couldn’t ignore the anxiety or the vicious need to win this pumping through his blood. Still, they’d never won a penalty shootout at the World Cup before. John’s heart was heavy with disappointment, a lump forming in his throat - this was it, then. England would be put out the World Cup on penalties. Same old story, same old England. John could weep. 

They lined up, shoulder to shoulder. John’s mouth was dry. Harry got it in, but then so did Colombia. The same thing happened again, then Henderson failed and John felt it slipping away. But - by some miracle - Uribe hit the bar on his shot, and it there appeared a glimmer of possibility. 

Trippier got it in, of course he did, and it all came down to Jordan and Eric. If Jordan didn’t save this they were out; if Eric couldn’t get it in they were out. John’s palms were sweaty, his heart in his mouth. Fucking Pickford, honestly, it should’ve been Joe, it should’ve been - 

Jordan saved it spectacularly. The ball smacked off his glove and went flying and the stadium erupted, John’s brain could hardly process. They were going to do this. They could do this. Dier stepped up, and the moment the ball hit the net John blacked out, no recollection of what he did or where he went after the fact. All he remembered was a blur of red as they jumped on each other, on Jordan, on Eric. The crowd sounded like a jet engine, but John could barely hear them over his heart in his ears. 

The love train on Jordan and Eric was more intense than ever. When Jordan finally came up for air John was staring at him, the world around him melting away and leaving Jordan standing there in a fuzzy blur of neon green and pink cheeks, shiny with sweat. John noticed properly for the first time that Jordan had a gap in his teeth, that his nose was very straight, his eyebrows almost invisible as the hair was so blonde. John was taken aback with how he suddenly wanted to be close to Jordan, to put his head under his sweaty green shirt and press his face into his stomach. 

Jordan looked at John and then away again, turning to Dier and pulling him into a hug. John swallowed and looked away, teeth grinding together. He spotted Dele out the corner of his eye, staring at Dier the same way John imagined he had been staring at Jordan. He walked over and put a hand on Dele’s shoulder, squeezing. The pair of them watched Eric and Jordan talking silently. Dele shook his head. “I’m going to be all over him like a fucking rash,” he muttered. John frowned and looked at him. 

“What?” 

Dele’s eyes seemed to come into focus, and he fumbled for the right words. “Er - like, shower him with love. You know. Support. Hugs and that.” 

“Oh. Yeah.” 

Then Kyle found John and they celebrated together, no one wanting to leave the fans on the pitch, content to stay in this moment forever. Eventually they had to leave, had to go back on the bus to the hotel. Gareth was beaming impossibly and John thought that it was all worth it just for him, to see him come full circle like this. They lifted him up on their shoulders in the changing room and sang football’s coming home, and John couldn’t properly enjoy the moment for thinking about how much he’d miss it for the rest of his life. 

It took them ages to get out of the stadium. Trying to corral the team in this mood was impossible, but somehow they managed it. There were two busses and John and Kyle were on the second, both barely able to sit still. John was especially frantic, knee shaking up and down, nails between his teeth. 

“You okay?” Kyle said, sensing John’s mood. “You seem a bit high.” 

John shrugged, blew air out of his nose. “Got to go and have a conversation with Jordan now, haven’t I.” 

“Aw. I was only joking about that. You don’t have to do it. He was good though, wasn’t he,” Kyle answered. 

“It was a bet. I have to,” he said, and Kyle narrowed his eyes. 

“You want to, don’t you? You’re impressed, admit it.” 

John looked out the window, biting his nails again, and said nothing. The less said about what was going through his mind, the better. 

They pulled up to the hotel and John hastened to the lifts, poking at their floor repeatedly. The doors were closing when Maguire stuck a hand in the crack and jumped in too, grinning at John. “Hiya,” he said breathlessly. “You heading off to bed too?” 

“Eh - yeah, yeah,” John muttered, staring at the carpet. He wasn’t in the mood for a conversation so he took out his phone and pretended to be typing something, grateful when the elevator stopped and the doors opened. He didn’t hang about, walking straight to the room he knew was Jordan’s. He stood there and took a deep breath, steadied himself, lifted his hand to knock - 

“That’s not your room,” Harry observed dopily from behind him. John clenched his teeth and turned around. 

“Good night Harry,” he hissed, and Harry seemed to get the hint, raising his eyebrows and scuttling off down the corridor. 

John waited until he heard the door open and close in the distance before knocking, gently, three times. There were a few seconds in which John regretted everything and then Jordan was standing there, confused, still wearing his England tracksuit. 

“Yeah?” He asked, watching John hop from foot to foot. 

“Can I come in?” John asked, voice betraying his confidence. 

Jordan looked at his watch. “Er - now?” 

“No, on Tuesday,” John remarked snappily, and he worried he’d ruined it until Jordan smirked and opened the door fully. 

John made his way into Jordan’s room. It smelled like hotels but also faintly of Jordan; the way he’d smelled that day after the Panama game. John was struck by a sudden violent urge to fall face down onto Jordan’s pillows and hump the bed until he came and he had to look quickly away from the bed, face heating up, suddenly paranoid Jordan had the power to read minds. 

“Have you come to tell us Hart would’ve saved all five pens?” Jordan said, leaning against the dresser and folding his arms. 

“No. Came to say - that was good, Pickford, like - really good. How you saved that goal.” 

“Oh. Cheers.” 

John looked around. “Yeah. What aftershave do you use?” 

Jordan quirked an eyebrow. “Eh... blue de Chanel?” He said. “Why?” 

“I like it,” John said, and smiled. Jordan did not reply. John looked around again, eyes settling on a pair of shoes lying on the floor. “What kind of shoes - “ 

“What is it you want, Stones?” Jordan asked, standing up properly.

John could feel his nerve waning and he was ready to say ‘nothing, never mind,’ but his mouth opened and out it came - “Can I kiss you?” 

Jordan stared at him, flabbergasted. “Can you - what?” 

John said nothing, just stared at Jordan’s face, heart thumping louder than it had on the pitch earlier. He didn’t know what was going to happen next, couldn’t have predicted it in a million years, when Jordan’s face changed into a laugh. 

“Oh, I see - someone’s bet you if I win the pens you’ve to come here and kiss me? Ha ha, alright, very funny. I get it.” 

John frowned, because no, that wasn’t it, but then he realised that Jordan was giving him an out. He was giving him a way to walk out of this room without destroying things irreparably, without being humiliated that he’d been rejected. John blinked back stupid tears and smiled. 

“Thank fuck,” he breathed, starting for the door. “Imagine you said yes?” John laughed, his voice an octave too high. “Hah! But still, good game, eh?” He grabbed the handle and opened the door, turning around. Jordan hadn’t moved and was looking at John pityingly; annoyingly. 

“Sleep well, Stonesy,” Jordan said gently, and John held up a hand and left. 

He barely slept a wink all night, and eventually got up and had a wank in the bathroom, thinking of the way Jordan looked when he swaggered up to the net during the penalty shoot out. 

— 

Things were different the next day. 

Things were different because John did not go out of his way to avoid Jordan - he let himself relax around him, even laughing when Jordan made a joke about the eggs being raw at breakfast. They were all sat at the table laughing, spirits high, when Dele and Eric walked in one after the other, walking straight to the breakfast bar. No one missed the way Eric was waddling ever so slightly, as if there was a blister on his foot that caused him pain every time he put weight on it. The rest of the lads couldn’t help sniggering, and John caught Jordan’s eye and looked away like he’d been burned, face heating up. 

They had a day of recovery before their game against Sweden, and whilst things were relaxed there was still a quiet excitement in the air. Everyone fully believed they could win it now - crazier things had happened. 

They began with some yoga and stretching, individual physio visits set to follow. John loved the way yoga cleared his head and was disappointed when it was over and he had to return to his own mind. He was chatting softly with Marcus and Jesse when one of the social media team approached him and asked if he’d take one of their cameras to do some bits for social media. John was keen and so was Jesse, accepting the cameras happily. 

Jesse was pissing about with his camera whilst John was taking serious photos, laughing at how good Kyle looked in them. Eventually Jesse got bored of taking photos of Marcus’s arse and dumped his camera down on the bench next to Kyle. John was trying to convince Kyle to have a go when Jordan came out of the physio room and spotted them, lighting up. 

“S’appnin?” 

“Got these cameras to take pictures for the social media,” John told him, grinning. “It’s well fun.” 

Jordan picked one of them up and started looking through Jesse’s photos. He snorted and turned the camera towards John. “Fucking sex pest man, this is just full of Rashford’s arse,” he commented, and John laughed openly, head tipped back. “Who’s been on this camera, Lingard or that fat Hollywood fucker? Harvey whatever his name is?” 

Before John could think twice he and Jordan were off, taking pictures and joking like they’d been friends for years. If anyone was confused they never said anything, like it was a miracle John had come around and if they acknowledged it things would go south. 

John was allowing himself to enjoy Jordan’s company, choosing to ignore his double edged guilt - guilt that he was betraying Joe, and guilt that he’d ever been awful to Jordan. He was surprised to find that they did actually get along, that Jordan wasn’t a total bell end and that he wasn’t actually too bad a keeper. 

It wasn’t until John was in bed later that night, trying to get some sleep before the Sweden game, that he saw the picture Kyle had taken of him and Jordan, holding their cameras, laughing together. John stared at it until his eyes blurred and then when he slept he dreamed of Jordan’s steady arms and long fingers holding the camera safely. 

— 

They beat Sweden 2-0. 

They were all losing their minds. England hadn’t made it to a semi final for decades and the cup was so close they could taste it. The whistle blew on their quarter final win and John looked around at their faces, looked around at the crowds in the stands and thought - “I wasn’t prepared for this.” 

He began to think about the pressure of the final, of how it would be to play a team like France or Belgium again in such a historic moment, the eyes of the world on them, the hopes and dreams of every one at home. Their lives had already changed so much - their follow counts on social media had shot through the roof and people were stopping them for selfies in the street even in Russia. John’s inbox was filled with girls and promo deals, media outlets requesting interviews, people telling him he was going to be snapped up by a team like Juve or Real Madrid or something ridiculous like that. 

John stood on the pitch and hugged his team mates and applauded the fans and his mind whirred overtime, panicking - what if they won this whole thing? Equally, what if they lost? Would his mum be embarrassed of him in front of all her colleagues if her son was part of the reason they made it to the final but couldn’t perform when it mattered most? Would his dad be ribbed by his mates at the pub? Would they be lambasted the way Gareth had been in the nineties, doing ads with paper bags on their heads? His legs and arms were heavy with fatigue and now with worry too, deep concern that he hadn’t thought this all the way through and wasn’t sure he could handle the pressure of all of this. 

John made himself walk off the pitch and down the tunnel, feeling nauseous at the sound of boot studs clicking all around him. Some grabbed him by the neck and squeezed, and he turned to see Gareth looking at him closely, examining his features. 

“Good job, champ,” Gareth said gently, and John tried to smile. 

“Thanks, boss,” he said meekly. “Can hardly believe it. We might win it, huh?” 

“One game at a time, alright? Don’t think about that yet. If that’s what’s concerning you, stop thinking about that. Semis first. Alright?” 

“Yeah. Yeah, you’re right. It’s just - “ 

John couldn’t finish his sentence because an official was tugging at Gareth, talking rapid fire about press and other important business. Gareth looked apologetically at John, torn. “Can we table this? Come and grab me later, John, will you?” 

John nodded but Gareth was gone, disappearing into the mob of people. He scratched the back of his head and sighed, made his way to the dressing room and sat down at his spot. The rest of the lads were ecstatic, celebrating and chanting and singing and dancing, and John was buzzing too but couldn’t shake the devil off his back, the worries that this was bigger than he was prepared for and that things could get out of hand if wasn’t careful. 

He was drawn out of his thoughts by the sensation that someone was watching him. John looked up and saw Jordan eyeing him suspiciously. He tilted his chin at John in question and John plastered a smile on, suddenly feeling dramatic. Why was he allowing himself to dampen the mood, the moment? He looked away from Jordan, pinched himself on the soft skin under his knee and tried to snap out of it. He found getting out of his head to be easier said than done. 

— 

John was sat on the edge of his bed, a few hours later, staring into space when there was a knock at his door. 

At first he wasn’t sure it was his door, or even that there had actually been a knock, but then it came again and someone said “John?” in the corridor. 

John hopped up and strode to the door, side stepping the clothes he’d dumped from his suitcase all over the floor. He opened the door and felt his anxiety increase tenfold at the sight of Jordan, in shorts and a sweatshirt and smelling faintly of body wash and shampoo. 

“Let’s chat,” Jordan said, pushing into the room. He didn’t step around John’s clothes but just marched over them, climbing onto the bed and crossing his legs underneath him. 

John stared into space with his mouth ajar, imagining he was a character on The Office for a second. He closed the door and stepped into the room, eyebrows raised. Jordan patted the space in front of him and John sighed and obeyed, sitting cross legged in front of Jordan so their knees touched. They both stared down at their legs, at how pale Jordan’s legs were next to John’s, at how the hairs on both of them contrasted. 

“Only girls get tattoos on their thighs.” Jordan observed finally. 

“Fuck off. Gender stereotypes are cancelled in 2018, did you not know?” 

Jordan laughed. “Fair one. What’s the matter?” He asked it softly, carefully. John wanted to cry already. 

“I’m shitting myself,” he said, eyes locked on Jordan’s shoulder. “I didn’t think we’d get this far.” 

“What are you scared of?” 

“Winning. Winning and everything changing. Winning and peaking athletically at 24. It’s all downhill after that, isn’t it? After you get the gold?” 

“That’s ridiculous, John. I get what you’re saying, like, but it’s ridiculous. What is it they say about you? You make loads of mistakes on the pitch - “ 

“Wow thanks, mate - “ 

“No, listen - they criticise you, don’they? No one’s saying you’re a flawless player. Are you saying if we win the World Cup people will think it was all you and that you’ve peaked?” 

“No...” 

“So you’ll still have your own game to improve on. You’re not the goat yet, Stones, get over yourself,” Jordan joked, and John couldn’t help but smile slightly. 

“I’m also scared of what’ll happen if we lose. If we let everyone down. Let my family down.” 

“Let me break it to you, right. We’re probably going to lose. There’s a 99% chance we won’t win the whole thing. We just aren’t ready. Not against M’bappe and fucking Hazard and even Modric. We aren’t going to win and it’s okay, John, that’s okay. Everyone at home, they’re buzzing anyway. We’ve never got this far before and we’ve got nout to lose. We’re going to be heroes no matter what. The world won’t stop turning, you’ll go back to your shiny fancy club and I’ll go back to mine and we’ll try again next time. It’s just football, right? Just a job that pays the bills. Just a game. Whatever happens it’s all going to be okay.” 

John felt like he was going to cry then, because the weight on his heart lessened as he internalised the words, listened to the sense in them. He closed his eyes and swallowed against the lump in his throat. Without opening his eyes he said “It wasn’t a dare, Jord - I wasn’t dared to ask you that the other night.” 

“Jesus,” Jordan breathed. “Don’t say it, don’t take it there,” he said, and John looked up at him, their eyes locked, both looking as scared as each other. 

“I’m sorry, I know it’s weird, but I can’t stop thinking - “ 

“There’s no going back man, it’s - if you - “ 

“I’m sorry I gave you a hard time, Jordan.” 

“It doesn’t matter.” 

“It does, it was shitty, I’m so sorry - “ 

Jordan grabbed John by the chin and kissed him, once, softly on the lips. He pulled back and John followed him, pressing him into another kiss, his hands finding purchase on Jordan’s hips. They touched their lips together again and again, almost experimentally, until they found a rhythm and were kissing properly, needily. John licked against Jordan’s lips and he opened them, letting John lick into his mouth freely. They kissed and John pressed closer and closer until Jordan was lying back and John was on top of him, their hips lining and their legs slotting into each other. John didn’t dare to grind down yet but he wanted to, had fight his body not to, and it was only when Jordan lifted his hips and moaned faintly that John let himself go. He pressed down carefully, deliciously slowly, rolling his hips. His eyelids flickered and he groaned, chasing it again and again, scared he was going to come in his pants. 

John grabbed Jordan’s cheeks suddenly and pushed his mouth open, exposing his teeth. Without thinking too much about why he lowered his mouth and licked into the gap in Jordan’s front teeth, fucking his tongue into it and making a mess of Jordan’s mouth, saliva everywhere. 

“If you had a pussy I’d eat you out,” John said gruffly, hips rolling. “Want to eat you out.” 

“There’s male alternatives,” Jordan said, voice breathy. “Other things you can do.” 

John pushed up and down, tugging at Jordan’s shorts. Jordan lifted his hips readily and off they came, his cock bouncing up to greet John. 

“You’re well hard,” John marvelled in surprise, looking at it. 

“Obviously,” Jordan grunted, putting a hand behind his head. “The idea is you put it in your mouth.” 

John licked his lips to ready them and, taking a deep breath, went down on Jordan, trying to remember to breathe. Sucking dick wasn’t easy and he suddenly felt bad for everyone who’d ever given him oral - it kind of felt like drowning, kind of tasted disgusting and kind of made his jaw ache but it was worth it for the way Jordan writhed underneath him, usually the picture of aloof and collected togetherness. Jordan grasped handfuls of John’s bedsheets and whined like crazy, either unaware he was doing it or unable to stop himself. 

“Did you - do this - with Harty then?” Jordan gasped out, and John choked. 

“Fuck off,” he said, his voice ragged. “Don’t be annoying.” 

“Sorry. Don’t stop though,” Jordan pleaded, hips bucking towards John’s face. John took him down again and sucked him harder, deeper. “I’m going to come soon,” Jordan croaked. “I’m not gonna last much longer.” 

John popped off then because he didn’t particularly feel like swallowing any semen. There was a line of spit connecting his lips to the head of Jordan’s cock and he stared at whilst he jacked his hand up and down, up and down. Jordan’s breathing hitched and he started coming, John pointing the stream away from himself so that it landed all over Jordan’s own pelvis and lower stomach. 

John let him go and sat back on his heels, entirely awestruck by the sight in front of him. Jordan was sweaty and flushed, eyes closed and mouth open on the bed, breathing erratically. He flickered his eyes open and John didn’t move, painfully hard in his own trousers. He searched for words but wasn’t sure how to ask for what he wanted. 

“How do boys have sex?” He asked, his throat fucked. 

Jordan raised his eyebrows and lowered them, frowned, thought. “Eh - up the arse? I don’t know though, about that,” he said, and John nodded. 

“Me too. I dunno. How can I - I want to come,” he begged, not even a bit embarrassed. 

“How do you want it?” Jordan asked him sincerely. “Tell me what you want.” 

John looked Jordan up and down and considered his options. His eyes settled on the come on Jordan’s belly and he moved forward suddenly, rucking Jordan’s sweatshirt up under his armpits. He pulled his shorts half way down his thighs and lowered himself onto Jordan’s stomach, one leg thrown over as much as it could be so he was half straddling him. He started moving his own cock back and forth through the mess on Jordan’s stomach, across the hair on his lower belly, in the dip of Jordan’s pelvic bone. Jordan brought a hand up and pressed it over John’s cock to provide him some friction, and John lowered his head down to Jordan’s neck and drilled it home, thinking you’re such a good goal keeper, you’re so good at football, and it was only when Jordan said “Thank you, I appreciate that, thank you,” that John realised he was saying it out loud. He came with a bitten off cry into Jordan’s shoulder and collapsed onto him like a tonne weight, his mind finally, for the first time in a long time, quiet. 

They couldn’t stay like that forever. The ping of John’s phone brought him back to reality. He carefully climbed up and off Jordan, too sheepish to look him in the eyes or to look at the mess they’d made. He went to the bathroom and grabbed a towel, bringing it back and tossing it to Jordan. Jordan cleaned himself up haphazardly and pulled his shorts back on. He stood up and looked at John. 

“Are you alright? Are you still... do you feel shit still?” 

Jordan smiled and shook his head. “I’m good. Tired. Gonna get some kip.” 

“Yeah, me too. Alright. Good night, Stonesy. You know where I am if you need me, eh?” Jordan walked to the door, patting John on the shoulder, and then he was gone. 

John blew out a breath and scrubbed his hands down his face. Fuck, he was such a hypocrite. He decided to take a shower and then go to sleep, to pretend that the last hour had never happened. He grabbed his phone whilst he waited for the water to heat up and saw that he had a text from Vardy. He opened it and his stomach fell out of his arse. 

Jamie Vardy: im 2 doors down and I just heard everything you fukin animal bet you never got a good seeing to like that off Harty did you hahaha 

John’s face went traffic light red and he threw the phone down on the bed like it had burned him. No, he never got a seeing to from Hart, ever. Maybe, just maybe, everyone else had a point about Jordan Pickford. Maybe there was more to life than the same old same old. Maybe this new England squad was a positive thing. 

Maybe change was good.

**Author's Note:**

> Belle-laid.tumblr.com


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